


Cutwork: A Tapestry of Pleasure and Pain

by Rachael Sabotini (wickedwords)



Category: Star Wars Episode I: The Phantom Menace
Genre: Alternate Universe - BDSM, Bloodplay, Heavy BDSM, Intense, Knifeplay, M/M, Needles, POV First Person, S&M, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2000-09-06
Updated: 2000-09-06
Packaged: 2017-12-28 06:55:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/989065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wickedwords/pseuds/Rachael%20Sabotini
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some missions require special skills.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cutwork: A Tapestry of Pleasure and Pain

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to both elynross and Sandy for the beta, and to Kim G, Rosa and Maygra for the support.

It doesn't take much to get him into bed; it takes a lot more to keep him. I manacle each wrist with the chains provided, cutting and tearing away his robes as required. The men around me laugh, watching the Jedi Master humbled. It is what they live for.

But Qui-Gon and I have played this game before, though never as deeply as we plan to do now. As Jedi, we held ourselves back from that edge, a luxury we could not afford. There are no such protections here; we must rely on trust. I can read it in his eyes as he watches me, though I cannot feel it in the Force. The room itself is shielded.

"Can't you be quicker about it?" Loquim, the regent's brother, calls out. "We'll be at this all night."

"If you're bored," I say, turning to glare at him, "I suggest you go elsewhere. This is going to take a while."

He gapes at me. "What?"

I speak calmly to him, as if to a child. "Loquim, he's a Jedi. He's been trained to ignore pain. You don't think a few hours of simple torture is going to give you what you want, do you?" I nod at Qui-Gon. "Look at him. He's already been beaten. If the answer was easy, don't you think you'd have it by now?"

He visibly pales under his neatly-trimmed beard as he gazes at the battered body, and I remember that he is only recently come into this little conspiracy. I finish securing my former Master to the bed and turn my attention completely to Loquim, playing my role as Inquisitor to the hilt.

Laying a black-gloved hand on his arm, I speak softly. "Your sister said she needed the information by tomorrow night, and I will have it for her. If you have no stomach for this, you'd better leave now." I gesture at the cameras that are monitoring the room. "You have other spies in here. You need not be present yourself."

The information that Qui-Gon will give me is fake, anyway. What matters is that the extraction of it appear real.

Loquim's gaze darts to a rivulet of blood dripping from Qui-Gon's forehead onto the floor, and he immediately turns back at me, swallowing hard. "Yes," he says softly, "I see your point." He nods to the guards, and they flank him as he leaves, leaving me alone with Qui-Gon.

I let my eyes dwell on his chest and his cock. There are how things seem, and how things are. The conspirators will see what they expect, a man tortured to give up his information -- while Qui-Gon and I make love.

Your perception determines your reality, or so the saying goes.

I feel my palms sweat. I am supposed to be the Inquisitor, hardened by time into a man capable of doing whatever needs to be done. Part of me thrills at the image I have to present and the freedom that come with it: freedom from the rules and regulations of the Jedi code.

Part of me fears that, as well. Am I ready for this? Or will I get caught up in the web we've spun? Can I hold back enough once we start? Is it the right time for me to be the master?

Too much thinking. Time to begin.

I take out the medical kit and make a point of sorting through unlabeled bottles before filling the injector. Let those observing us think I am injecting him with a truth serum, rather than antibiotics and vitamins. I apply the drug, and Qui-Gon jerks away, his breath hissing through his teeth.

I turn his head to the side. They'd caught his ear when he was attacked; I need to get bacta on that. He pulls his head out of my hands and stares defiantly at me; I smile back. The bacta will be laced with salt, and it will sting like hell. Qui-Gon will love that.

I pull out my knife and caress the blade, making sure that Qui-Gon sees it, knows that this will be the trigger. His eyes widen, and he nods, saying nothing, and my eyes flick down to his groin.

I can see that his interest is already piqued. We haven't played rough in a long, long time. Not since--

Naboo.

I can't help myself; I have to look. I sit down on the bed next to him and run my hand over the scars on his chest. If I tilt my head just right, it almost forms a starburst pattern. I draw my knife along the edge of it, tracing out a non-existent line.

"How did you get this?" I ask, an easy opening, as I already knew the answer.

Qui-Gon does not reply.

That's good. He isn't supposed to, not until I use the blade, anyway. This isn't supposed to be easy on anyone.

I turn away from the scar and put the knife down on the tray. "Would you like some water?" I ask, knowing he'll be thirsty.

He doesn't say a word.

I pick up the pitcher of water and pour myself a glass, aware of how he is observing me. I drink, then pour another and let it sit.

We'll come back to that later.

* * *

Naboo had been a turning point for me, in more ways than one. The discovery of the Sith meant that more knights were needed in the field, and some in...less savory positions. Imagine my initial joy at finding out that Qui-Gon lived and that I would be knighted, only to be sent as far away from Coruscant as could be managed.

With Qui-Gon injured, the healers learned many things, privacy being difficult for a comatose man. My preferences were accepted, given that they had not affected my life as a Jedi -- that indeed, they could enhance it, be of use to the order. No one would look at me as they commended the way I had been trained, as I was told how my predilections could be an asset in certain situations, as I was admonished to take care and not let them pull me into the dark side.

But I was not to be allowed near Anakin. The healers said that the boy had similar tastes. I was astonished by that. Nine years old and they already could tell.

Anakin was what, now? Thirteen? No one had found out about me until I was sixteen, and I hadn't known about Qui-Gon until I was twenty. I walked in on him unexpectedly while he was deep in meditation, his arms and thighs a patchwork of needles, little red dots where they pricked the skin. I was elated that someone else in the order felt something of what I felt; I watched him a long time, watched his careful, measured breathing as he inserted each needle, getting harder the longer I watched.

I knew what he wanted, and I knew that I could give that to him. Eventually, he let me, but it was always controlled. We always took care to make sure our commitment never wavered, made sure that no taint of darkness ever appeared. In our play, despite our preferences, Qui-Gon was still the Master; he remained in control.

But prisoners have no control, and Inquisitors have no Jedi Code. Here and now, I am an Inquisitor first, though always a Jedi. I will be in control. The thought is a heady one, sending the first spark of arousal through me, a sharp jolt to my groin that makes my cock tingle. I step away from Qui-Gon and center myself, breathing carefully, bringing myself back to my role. "You know what I am going to do to you."

"Yes."

"Good." I cast my eyes at the tools I'd brought, figuring out where to start. Something small to warm him up, to get the blood to the surface and start the endorphin rush. A tease more than anything else, yet it had to look and sound a lot worse.

A strap was good. A wide one made a lot of noise when it hit, no matter how light a stroke I used. And if I started with Qui-Gon's chest...he'd flinch as he saw the stroke fall. The image makes me almost shiver.

Arms, thighs, chest, building it up a bit before changing his position. The more I imagine, the more flushed I feel, thinking about how Qui-Gon will react. I can feel myself getting hard just thinking about it. Imagine what it will be like once I start using the strap....

It won't be long before I'll need to switch to something a little stronger, a little narrower, that will dig in and raise a few welts. Qui-Gon's skin takes bruises beautifully, showing quickly and with little effort; my cock twitchs at the thought. Once he is well-marked, I'll go for a change of sensations, to creams and ointments and lingering pain--

And end it with sharp. There's a subtle sound that flesh makes as it's cut; I noticed it the first time I ate meat, how the knife catches and slides as it goes through muscle, how the pieces fall away from each other. It's beautiful, and there's nothing else like it in the world.

I'm sweating, imagining what that will be like, my erection already aching inside my pants. My hands ache to curl around the handle of the knife, touch the blade to skin. Qui-Gon will let me cut him -- will want me to cut him -- when the time is right. All we have to do is perform, and what he said will be believed.

He just has to trust me to know when it's right.

* * *

Qui-Gon wants to please me. I can see it in his eyes, in the way they flash to me; I can feel it in the way he breathes, a constant flow of air, not held at all. His body knows me, knows I can give him what he wants.

And I do want to please him. Part of my own pleasure comes from seeing how much he enjoys this, my cock reminding me of that with every beat of my heart. I measure the distance from where I stand to my target, already anticipating where the leather will fall, deciding where to place my mark. My hands tremble, and I have to relax them, let the blood flow. I like precision in my placement, and I can't let my own excitement overrule that. I have to stay in control.

I bring the strap down; it lands with a snap and a thud, leaving a red welt behind. His body trembles, but he doesn't cry out. It's too soon for that; he hasn't been pushed enough.

And I will push him. Push him so hard and so rough that each time the strap hits, it will feel like an electric current running up his spine. He'll gasp and moan and jerk away, his movements becoming a dance as he tries to avoid what will happen.

But I won't let him. I have to be faster than he is, out think where his body will move, the two of us working in harmony, almost like a kata, leaving his skin criss-crossed with welts. I want to see those marks, know that I caused them and that he is mine.

I hit him again and again, varying the force and the pressure, changing the rhythm, trying to keep him off-balance. At last he gasps, and I know I have him; I grin in triumph. We both have what we want.

There is an answering light in Qui-Gon's eyes, one quickly hidden as the strap lands again. He jerks and hisses in pain, and I know, I *know* it feels good.

"Where did you get the scar?" I ask again.

He turns his head from me and wraps his hands around the chain, holding on to it instead of talking to me. His strength is amazing. I can't help but brush my erection against his hand as I move to a new position. He risks it and strokes me when the camera can't see, but it's not the right time for that.

Sometimes I envy him, his ability to take pleasure from anything he's given. It shows such a connection to the Living Force that it's almost impossible to put into words. He once said that at the peak moment, it is as if he is one with everything. He exists only in the moment.

I want to give him that.

I move into position and hit him again.

* * *

The longer it lasts, the more of a connection there is between us. I'm struggling to keep my control, my cock weeping in my uniform pants, desperate for relief. I know he's struggling, too; the pain feels so good to him, but the others don't see that. They don't know how much he craves this -- but I do. I crave it, too.

"Where did you get the scar?" My voice is hard and low, darkly threatening. He shivers at the sound, his nipples tight and erect, but he makes no other sound. I hate his silence; I feel distant and alone. I need to hear him scream.

I bring out the bacta, the one laced with salt, but he barely jerks when I spray it on the welts from the other beatings. He's still into himself, still acting defiant. I have to erase that act before we can do anything else.

I pick up one of the creams, a healing balm laced with menthol and fireoil, and hold it over his head where the cameras can see it. The burn fades quickly -- perhaps too quickly -- but too much fireoil could damage the skin. "This cream goes on cool. You won't notice it at first, but as it works its way into the skin it will burn." I set the jar down and stare at him. "Enough of it, and the skin blisters and cracks. It is quite painful, especially when you have all those welts."

His body tenses as I talk, and I feel a moment of panic, but is it his emotion, or my own? Does he trust me enough not to push it too far? Do I trust myself enough to be able to read him so I don't overstep his bounds? Can he accept the pain that I need to give him now? Can I give him the amount of pain he desires? He licks his lips, and his body relaxes; whatever was running through his mind, the moment is over. I can almost feel him blend deeper into the Force, even with the shield on.

I can't sink into myself like that. I have to protect us both.

I take care to use gloves.

The cream gives me a chance to touch him, to slide my hands over his skin, caressing him: the Inquisitor luxuriating in his prisoner's pain. It grounds me, that feel of Qui-Gon's muscle, his hands, feet, legs, arms. I make sure to caress his nipples, rolling them under my fingers, wishing we could be skin to skin.

I want to bite him. I want to lick him, I want to taste his mouth, his ass, his cock. I want to make him come. I let my need flow through me and out my hands; in Qui-Gon's gasp, I can tell that he feels it. His eyes see the world around him once again.

Our connection tightens. I can almost feel his desire under my skin. That was what he was feeding into the Force, his love for his own pain. I take that desire into me and match it to my own, feeding it back to him through my hands.

He swallows and gasps as I finish rubbing the cream into his skin, taking care not to touch it myself, stripping my gloves off carefully in case I needed to use them later. It burns along the welts, and he yells, deep-throated curses that seem to shake the room. I can feel him releasing his pleasure in the force of his voice.

I know they are cries of exhaltation, that his perception of the room and his place are being driven away. His cock is weeping, and I'll have to bind it soon. I won't let him come until I am settled deeply within him.

I can see his trust and love shine through his tears. I knead my erection through the cloth, not caring that I am seen. I toe off my ankle-high boots, my hands already at the fastening of my pants--

I drop my hands and back away, my breathing ragged, blood pounding in my ears. I can't let my desires push me too hard; it is getting near the point where I could do anything to him, and he would not object, not caring if the mission were fulfilled. I can't let it go that far; I have to stay in control. At this moment, I must be the master.

Wiping the sweat off of my face, I center myself while his screams reach a fevered pitch. I want to be worthy of his love.

* * *

I stroke the knife-edge, knowing it's finally time. Qui-Gon's gaze tracks my movements, and at first I'm afraid I've gone too far; I see no recognition of what the blade means. I tease him with it, drawing the edge along his cheek and neck, pricking the base of his throat until a red dot forms. He gasps and shudders; I think if I had not bound up his cock, he might have come.

But I see the flash of recognition. He knows what is coming. He knows what to do.

Force, how I love him. His chest is red from the beating, the skin tortured, ready to burst. One small cut....

I trace the edge of the scar with my knife, splitting the skin. Qui-Gon screams, his body so sensitized by now that he cannot hold back his physical reactions. He trembles and gasps under my hands, his mind soaring from the adrenaline rush. Even with the Force-shield I can feel it -- an animalistic mixture of pain and lust.

He is so beautiful like this, the patina of Jedi Master stripped away, leaving the man behind. His hair, hanging around his face, lush streaks of grey among the dark brown, hides his expression from me. I push it aside so I can see his eyes.

Sharp and clear still, after everything that I've done. He almost vibrates with need. I slide my hand down and massage his cock through its lacings, twisting his balls as I do so, smiling as I hear him groan.

It is sweet, it is dear, to hear his agony. The tiny voice that acts as regulator hisses at me, tells me I am getting too caught up in the moment -- but I don't want to let go. I press in harder, let him feel my body against his, grinding my cock against him as he moans, his eyelashes fluttering, no will now but my own. "Tell me about the scar."

I nip at his skin; he practically vibrates under my hands. The men viewing the tape will see it as agony. They have no idea how hard his cock is in my hands. "The scar," I ask again, twisting harder, watching his eyes roll back into his head until they are almost white. "Where did you get the scar?"

He is panting and groaning now; I want to fuck him. "Naboo," he whispers. "I got the scar...in a fight...on Naboo."

The response is perfect. Slow and painfully drawn out, as if he is ashamed, rather than eager to talk. I release his balls and pet his hair, feeling Qui-Gon tremble under my hands, letting my approval show itself in my touch. "It's lovely," I lean down and lick at the blood that has slid down his chest and pooled on his belly, waiting for me. It tastes sweet, as sweet as his pain, as sweet as our love. Tears leak out of the corner of his closed eyes, and I kiss them away, proud of what he's done. "That wasn't so bad, was it? The next answer will be easier."

I grab the water from the tray and take a sip, pour it into his mouth with my own. A little information, a little reward. It's an old game, but a comfortable one; the watchers know it, as well. I hold on to him and gaze into his eyes. "We have a lot of time."

* * *

As soon as I can, I have him; I'm sure it looks like rape to Loquim. I slam into Qui-Gon, moaning as I take him, my pants barely unfastened, only enough that I can pull my cock out. I thrust in, covering as much of Qui-Gon as I can with my body, protecting him from prying eyes. They can't see what I see, feel what I feel; they have no way to understand. Even the clothing I wear is almost too much between us, but I have to keep it in place.

I'm afraid I will forget who I am supposed to be and become Obi-Wan once again. And then we would both probably die.

I bite into his neck as I pulse into him, his voice the only sound in the room. Qui-Gon shudders beneath me, his pleasure a reflection of my own. Even with a hundred languages to draw from, I have no words to describe what it feels like to be part of him right now.

We have only the moment.

* * *

By the time we are through, there is enough on the security tape to convince anyone that the information is real. Qui-Gon is sleeping at last, completely exhausted. I still feel strung out, my own orgasm doing nothing to calm me, adrenaline pinging around me like a cagedmerbat, and I curse the Council all the while.

I'd taken Qui-Gon further into himself for them than I ever had before, and now all I want to do is take care of him and see that he is all right. But with my current role, I can't do that. I have no time to be lover; I have to get rid of the information first.

And then...then...I will find some way to take him with me when I leave. I can't leave anything as precious as Qui-Gon in that bastard regent's hands.

I press the communicator button to let them know I am ready. I am fastening the last of the buttons on my black trousers when I hear them outside the door. I pull on my boots and meet Loquim and his guards at the door.

None of them will look at me.

I hold out the tape, and Loquim takes it carefully, as if touching my hands might soil him. He nods to the guards to go inside, and I slam my arms in front of them, blocking the entrance.

"No," I snarl, more Inquisitor than Jedi. "Your sister said I could name my price when I was done. I want the prisoner."

At that, Loquim finally glances at me, his brown eyes wide with shock. "But he's a Jedi--"

"He is mine."

The guards shift nervously, looking at one another. I don't need the Force to know what they are thinking. They'd seen the tape, seen what I'd done, how I'd cut into Qui-Gon and enjoyed making him bleed.

I'm a sadistic bastard -- that's what they think, and they are right. That's why the Council chose me for this job.

I stare at him, and at last, Loquim looks away. "Take him," he whispers. "He's yours."

I motion the guards in and tell them to be careful as they walk Qui-Gon out to my cruiser. Loquim watches in stony silence and follows us out of the hall, his eyes focused on the cuts, scrapes, welts, and bruises that cover Qui-Gon's body, the way he sags against the guards, the way he limps as he walks.

I get Qui-Gon settled, and right before I get in, Loquim grabs my arm. "You had better hope my sister wins the throne, Inquisitor, because if she loses, I will find a way to take the throne myself. And there will be no Inquisitors under my reign."

"For her to lose, the information would have to be false." I shake off his arm; I need to get Qui-Gon to safety. "At your leave, your highness."

He grimaces, looking at the cruiser like it leaves a bad taste in his mouth. "Get out of my sight."

With a polite bow, I do, our mission accomplished.

Qui-Gon is barely awake as I crawl into the cruiser; he smiles at me as I settle in to drive. "It was good," he says softly, squeezing my thigh, reassuring me, his voice ragged, rough from screaming. "I knew I could trust you."

I swallow and nod, fastening my safety harness; he places his hand on mine, and I can see where his wrist is torn from the manacles. I tremble at his touch, tension I didn't even know I carried shuddering through my body. I start gasping; I can't breath.

Qui-Gon's voice sooths me, "I am proud of you, Obi-Wan. You did well." His hand moves to my cheek now and touches me, wiping away a small tear I didn't even realize I'd shed. "You did not fail. Darkness did not overtake us. Release your fears into the Force."

It is as if I am a Padawan once again, and I am wrapped in blanket of Qui-Gon's approval and love. I center myself, and my breathing instantly eases. "I was afraid for you. I was afraid I would lose control."

"I share your fear. I was afraid I would fail you, and put both of us at risk."

"I release my fear into the Force." We spoke the words together, balancing our desires with our fears, just as we had in the interrogation room, power and trust together, a unified force.

The tension eases, and I realize that with the Force-shield on, I'd absorbed everything we did emotionally into myself. I turn to Qui-Gon to thank him for helping me; I will do more meditation later. He seems paler now than when I first entered the cruiser. He must have used up the last of his energy helping me.

I lean over and kiss him, our lips gently caressing one another, intimate and familiar. Pulling back I run my finger over his cracked and parched lips. "Let me take you someplace with warm water and clean sheets, and I'll show you how good it can be."

"I do not think I am the only one in need of such comforts. We will have to care for each other, I think." His head sinks back against the headrest, as if he can't hold up the weight. "I am afraid I will have to rest before we can do much." He blinks wearily at me and sighs. "And eat...and a bath...." His voice drifts off.

"Yes, Master." I reply, my response automatic. As I start the cruiser, I whisper, "You will always be my master."

But he is already asleep.

\--The End --  



End file.
